


Metamorphosis

by Anorkie



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Injuries, Past Relationship(s), The obligatory slave fic, They upset each other because they're idiots, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: "Consider this a transition into your new life."





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> I began this before I learned Lotor is a 10,000 year old crust-slut, hence the inaccurate age references. They're still fun for me.

“Consider this a transition into your new life.”

The hands are suspiciously gentle as they comb out the small knots caught in his hair. The ministrations invoke anxiety rather than calm and he finds them unnecessary, especially as the shears perform their first snip and the emperor takes an interested step forward. He feels his face being watched for the slightest sign of distress so he forces his muscles to relax, unwilling to forfeit satisfaction for something as petty as having his hair chopped off. It would be a lie, however, to claim such an invasion on his body does not trouble him. Still, he finds himself rationalizing it: his hair was getting too long _anyway;_ unsightly, jagged layers had been cut into it through decades of battles _anyway;_ the restraints prevent him from doing much about it _anyway_. Perhaps, his coping techniques are unhealthy, but they have enabled him to survive the hardships of his life, each endorsed by his father, his personal devil--even now, in death.

The familiar brush of hair behind his neck dwindles and his heart plunges with its absence. The white chunks puddled in his lap and around his ankles are merely previews of what is to come, he realizes, yet there is no inclination to be more perturbed than he is now. He has learned to expect the worst--always. And when the worst does not come--

“That is enough.”

\--he has won.

“Leave us,” the emperor orders with a whopping two inches to spare.

The barber quickly trims the uneven ends before collecting the stray hairs for disposal. He collects his tools, too, and wordlessly exits with his head bowed low.

The emperor, _Sendak_ , takes another step forward to, what it would seem, inspect the barber's handiwork. His unchanged expression gives Lotor an inkling he is not impressed. In fact, his upper lip raises slightly to reveal the beginnings of fierce incisors as he scoffs, “You are still hideous.”

Resisting the knee-jerk reaction to throw back his head and collapse into hysterics is painful, but Lotor manages. He is reminded of the schoolyard taunts he received daily from children much more Galra than him in every sense of the word, though he believes the first time that particular insult was hurled at him, it came directly from his father's mouth. Irony would have it the only person that ever convinced him otherwise is standing in front of him right now. That is why this is--

“Funny” --he clicks his tongue-- “I am old--well, not _nearly_ as old as you--but I do recall you using a much different line of vocabulary to describe me, especially when you were underneath me, _moaning_ , using words like sweetheart, gorgeous, love--”

It is merciful, Sendak's flesh hand clutching his throat like a wiggling worm, prepared to squeeze and watch the guts gush with sick satisfaction. It is impossible to swallow past the overwhelming pressure that is Sendak's palm, so Lotor is left with little to do besides cough and choke on his own saliva. His body contorts uselessly in the chair, against the restraints, inspiring the expression on Sendak's face to shift into something infuriating. He looks pleased with himself; Lotor eagerly awaits unconsciousness. Instead, he is bestowed lessening pressure--a chance to breathe.

“Brat,” Sendak growls. Playing the part, Lotor snorts as hard as possible and shoots a handsome wad of spit-mucus into the emperor's snout. He is quickly introduced to another hand, one that dwarfs him at his full height, and only regrets not aiming for Sendak's good eye instead as the metal fist makes contact with his chest. The impact is enough to launch his head into Sendak’s forearm, where it vibrates from the frequency of the blow and leaks sweat, tears, and spit alike.

“ _Slave_ ,” is the emperor's snarl. “That is what you are, so that is how I will address you.”

Lotor wheezes, body still attempting to comprehend the damage done to it. It seems to be a good enough reaction because the metal constricting his ribcage recedes somewhat. His lungs lurch with the newfound space so suddenly he feels like vomiting would be the only way to quell them. He thinks he should force it, even in the likelihood the emperor finds him even more repulsive and inflicts greater punishment.

“Tell me you understand.” Sendak's voice bounces off the walls of the chamber as it grows more authoritative. “Speak freely again and I will have much more than your hair lopped off.”

A line of drool follows Lotor as he lifts his head. As far as torture and demands go, this is arguably tame, yet he feels himself weakly hum in agreement to at least respect the transparency Sendak has upheld to this point. He does not doubt the threat of lost extremities; in fact, he suspects Sendak would have him reduced to the bare minimum of parts, as long as those missing parts did not immediately hinder his survival. It would be easy to pull him apart and force his body to go on living, especially with That Witch maintaining her significance and safety by the new emperor’s side, still equipped with all the tools to torment enemies for her sire’s pleasure and her own.

“Yes, my Lord,” Lotor croaks as his voice returns to him. Sendak squints.

“You have always put up more of a fight than that.”

“Please, tell me I have not delivered my Lord to the throes of boredom so soon,” he says, extinguishing a great deal of energy to express his sarcasm. He's pushing it. He knows he is.

“Silence,” Sendak grunts, but the command lacks enthusiasm. Sentimentality... _whatever_ the reason, Lotor assumes that was his final freebie of sorts.

Sendak makes quick work of disabling the restraints Lotor heaves against. Freed in at least one sense of the word, Lotor unwittingly collides into Sendak, scrambling for purchase of the less lethal arm and unprepared for the intimacy the heat of the limb provokes. He is allowed the simple decency to recompose himself and, within these fleeting minutes, finally takes in the familiar scenery of the room.

This was his father's bedroom chamber; at least, a part of it. He never spent too much time here, and he imagines neither did his father at any point in his dreadful existence. Being young and naive and _wanting_ the physical affection of a parent, he would toddle to the chamber’s entrance again and again, never quite learning, only to be snatched up by a caretaker and corrected. He was reminded, in simpler terms, his father did not have the time, energy, or willingness to fulfill the unadulterated desires of a child, much less his own son’s. Tragically, the old emperor did not have a taste for interior design, so his personal quarters are more or less...minimalistic, but Lotor recalls its dull details well because he lured Sendak here at least once (or twice) as a teenager. Precarious in theory, yes, but it was almost always abandoned.

They did get away with it.

“Stay,” Sendak orders. Lotor pries his fingers from the hair of the man's wrist, carefully untangling knots he absentmindedly created. Sendak doesn't seem to notice the gesture or care because he detaches himself from Lotor amidst the activity, uprooting a small patch of hair that Lotor flicks from his fingers with more disgust than he actually feels. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and is surprised to see a flash of red. He feels it now, the place he bit his lip. It's funny how much it initially hurts; an accident, and he did it to himself. His body reminds him of its pain-contrived exhaustion and sags deeper without the weight of Sendak supporting it. If he wanted to attempt something juvenile like running, he doubts he would get very far--not with his chest stinging every time he breathes, anyway.

He observes Sendak with mild interest as he wanders into one of the other rooms. His absence seizes control of the atmosphere in his stead, expanding in the eerie quiet of the chamber, and Lotor supposes this will be his life as a prisoner of the Galra Empire: reprimands and silence.

Hope is a foolish and self-destructive concept to cling to at times such as these, yet his mind drifts to the only people who might bother to spare a second thought on his disappearance. He does not expect them to lose sleep over him, much less risk their lives, not after he's exhausted his potential as a formidable ally. He does wonder, however, how the Paladins of Voltron will handle the coming of a new emperor. He wonders when he will cross paths with them again, if ever. He wonders if Shiro, the only paladin to defy his teammates and back Lotor on his plan instead, escaped with his life.

“You can do this,” Shiro had said as they boarded the Black Lion. “You have to.”

So caught up in the moment, Lotor cannot remember if he properly thanked Shiro for his sacrifice, and that does not settle well on the ex-prince's conscious.

He runs an experimental hand through the chopped locks of his hair, tugging loosely on the shortened ends. Short, manageable hairstyles are common among his people but unbecoming of him. No pivotal moment in his childhood led him to the decision to grow it out as long as he did, though his father did express his distaste for the look once and maybe that was kindling enough to keep it. Someone once described his mother as having long hair.

It will grow back.

Sendak returns, and his eye falls expectantly on Lotor who retracts his hand upon meeting the emperor's gaze.

“Do you hate it?” Lotor shoots him a look. “Good.”

He does not know what to expect but braces himself nonetheless as Sendak approaches. He makes a quick gesture of his hand that Lotor interprets as _stand_ , so he stands.

“Choose a room,” Sendak instructs. “One attached to this one.”

 _Choices._ Lotor quirks an eyebrow, and maybe it was the brief time alone that makes him stupid, or maybe it is Sendak making him stupid, because he says, “Pray tell, what is _your_ definition of slave?”

Sendak takes Lotor's jaw between his thumb and forefinger, pinching his mouth open with little resistance. “Do you not learn, boy?” The Galra’s voice rumbles deep in his throat. The meat of his thumb presses into Lotor's chin as he sticks two digits into his mouth, initiating the gag reaction Lotor convinced himself he worked through. Even as his body shakes with the beginnings of a coughing fit, he keeps his curling hands by his sides. Fighting back would only instigate something much, much worse and he was already warned.

Sendak's fingers creep further into Lotor's throat, nails scraping his tongue hard enough to reveal his plans for the quivering slab of muscle. Lotor forgoes restraint to clasp his hands around Sendak's forearm, not to resist, but to squeeze when the pain becomes too unbearable, to fight the impulse to chomp down on the invading fingers and lose more than his tongue for a half-minded assault.

He expects the squelch of bursting blood to paint his mouth into a gorey scene only Sendak will appreciate. He expects to be reduced to a gurgling husk on the floor while Sendak taunts him, and that terrifies him--that visual--because, if not predetermined, it seems something of this effect is long overdue. He can taste a bead of blood blossom underneath of Sendak's fingertip before it gets diluted by a pooling of saliva. The fluid drains between the gaps of the obstruction, to the corners of his mouth, and from his chin in an unsightly display of helplessness. Helpless: this is how Sendak must momentarily perceive him, but for some reason he stalls what could have been done already. Lotor's fight-or-flight response shrieks at him for becoming a bystander to his own probable muteness. Sendak bumps heads with him.

“No more talking,” he grumbles, and that is when Lotor expects the heated sting of pain to explode in his face like a timebomb.

It's a dud.

“No more talking,” Sendak repeats as if he’s speaking to a misbehaved child. He carefully retracts his soping hand and takes a measured step back to observe the combustibility of his lingering touch. Lotor's face twists with new-found air and abhorrence, lacking the sense to accept both at once as he feels his sticky forehead peeling from Sendak's. The numbness passes with each labored breath and avoidance of eye contact for less haughty visuals. He feels an inquisitive hand reaching for his bicep, and he somehow retains nerve enough to growl a warning, an absolute refusal to be perceived as malleable. The heat of Sendak reaching out again brings Lotor's eyeballs to Sendak's one, and the urge to pluck it teeters between two hard affirmatives. He inhales slowly through his teeth, attempting to calm and remind himself he is keener on speech than violence, even though speaking is what brought him to this moment and it is, for the foreseeable future, forbidden. It's a shame, too; Sendak is ridiculously easy to rouse and belittle.

“Angry?”

His ears twitch on their own. _“Angry” is a poor evaluation of my mood; my grievances run much deeper than--_

“Just some cut hair and foreplay, sweetheart.” He sounds purposefully lighthearted. “Nothing to rage about.”

He gestures with the cybernetic arm. His fingers clink as they unfold, masquerading popping joints.

“Now, choose a room.”

Lotor clears his throat and turns on his heel. The familiar swing of hair does not follow him, but he does not allow himself to be disheartened as he navigates the connecting rooms with Sendak lurking behind. He was allowed his personal chambers from childhood to his expulsion as an adult and, truly, the space was grand as it was unnecessary, especially for a single person. Expectantly lonely. These rooms evoke much of the same empty energy.

He stands before the room of his choosing. He nods once in the direction of the door and flickers his gaze to the emperor in a silent request for approval.

“This one?” Sendak seems amused.

Lotor maintains the eye contact. Sendak softly laughs on an exhale and waves his prosthetic along a console connected to the door, signaling its opening, which it performs at a yawning pace, having not been accessed in so long.

A small, dusty apartment slowly appears, and it is almost comical; one of many belonging to the former emperor, yet unkempt due to centuries of neglect. However, for a prisoner, it is a luxury to occupy such a space singularly and unshackled. The artificial lights blink in realization of the sudden motion of the door, of the bodies sauntering in. Upon quick inspection, there is a bed that has never been slept in and a desk, spotless save for a thin film clinging to it. Lotor halts somewhere in the middle, begrudgingly adjusting to the monotony of the space.

Sendak leans against the frame of the door and Lotor thinks the causality does not suit the situation, but maybe it is perfectly appropriate. He pretends something has caught his attention to poorly excuse himself from the emperor's commanding gaze.

“You wish to speak,” his voice booms in the smallness of the room, the same way his physique has always demanded attention. “Speak.”

Lotor keeps his back turned. His mind reminds his body of the damage done to it and, while not lethal, does not desire a second coming. His bones and organs alike ache for his cooperation.

“You are allowed,” Sendak adds. “No tricks.” Lotor does not know how to interpret that; a promise of Sendak's level-headedness or a short demand for manners on Lotor's part?

Lotor stretches their distance with another step, wary of the danger but knowing there is no current escape of it. He softens his expression and he peeks over his shoulder. “I suspect the trouble may be greater than the reward.” He says this, but there is no doubt in his mind Sendak enjoyed every attack to his prisoner and will continue to find enjoyment in trivial teasing.

“Have me all figured out, then? Tell me, slave, what is it I want?” Interest renewed, he readjusts his posture to make himself appear larger. His nature is typical, Lotor thinks, even after all this time, and he cannot reason being slightly charmed by the puffiness of his chest and slight tilt of his head. Maybe it is nostalgia, but nostalgia is a bitch and never has done him any favors.

He recalls Sendak kinder and swallows a lump in his throat. “To mangle the universe in the same vein as my father, and to have me go mad witnessing the ineptitude of your rule.” He never does learn.

A grin tugs at a corner of Sendak's lips. “Always so quick and clever with that tongue.”

“Yes,” he says, surprising himself a little. He turns on his heel and takes a step toward the emperor, surprising himself even more. “And all thanks to the mercy of my Lord.”

Sendak's chest rises and falls with an expectant laugh that feels deceptively warm and cold. “Kissing ass is a survival technique all on its own, hmm?”

Lotor's face splits with a smile, as well. “Indeed,” he sighs. “One you successfully employed to get so close to my father and the throne.”

Sendak's laughter stales, but a smirk remains and seems to encase the lost humor. Something bitter and aged creeps along his features. With disdain-stained speech, he says, “I was more of a son to him than you ever were.”

“You deserved each other,” Lotor hisses, overwhelmed with the truth Sendak is speaking.

It stings, and it shouldn't, because Zarkon preferred, even regularly enjoyed, Sendak's company compared to Lotor's, and he would have chosen Sendak for this if he had been given the choice. Jealousy is too chaste of a word to describe the feelings he once associated with Zarkon and Sendak's relationship. He had watched from a distance and cooled the feelings of abandonment to a precarious simmer, because Sendak coveted Zarkon’s praise, and Lotor had loved Sendak and the concept of a father he would never know. Lotor had immediately regretted skewing his father with rubble, the desperation of the act, and the smothered chances of something that never took root. He regrets not revisiting a similar desperation when nearly beheading Sendak at the Kral Vera. Was it too desperate and demented to attempt to deliver Zarkon the son he had wanted more? Had the hope of love after death slowed his reflexes, made his sword dull?

“He found more value in your life than mine. He despised me,” Lotor chokes, and it feels like giving in, because it aches to admit. “You were better in every way.”

Sendak licks his lips and hums in quiet consideration of the response. Surprisingly enough, his overall posture deflates, and Lotor does not know what to make of it. He reaches for his eyes to rub the wetness accumulating in them before they surface a more obvious weakness. His vulnerability has surely damned him already, yet he prefers to save face where he can.

“Come,” Sendak calmly requests with a curling finger. Lotor pretends there is a string attached to the end of the beckoning extremity to make the motion of his legs easier. He halts in front of Sendak, somewhat awkwardly, and his breath catches to the sensation of fingertips ghosting his face.

The emperor dips his head in the space separating them and perfumes Lotor's closed mouth with his gentle breath. Even though he is not being touched, Lotor feels confined by Sendak's immediate presence and gasps at the suggestion of touch. His mouth remains slightly ajar, and his breath comes haggardly while his heart pounds rampantly in his chest. He noses Sendak's hand, wordlessly inviting it to go forth with its intentions, and so it finds a place along the base of his skull to caress. He is held firmly as Sendak leans in to connect their lips. Lotor feels his eyelids grow heavy and he allows the betrayal, and the betrayal of his mouth when it hurriedly returns the kiss. His moaning is smothered and then exemplified with two more kisses, but Sendak soon stops, so he stops, too.

“Is this what you want?” Lotor softly says against Sendak's lips. He is quickly brought into another kiss, one passionate enough to raise his hands and bury them into the scruff of Sendak's neck. He loosely scrunges the fur between his fingers, intoxicated with the familiarity of the sensation. A wistful hum escapes him as he forgets himself for a moment and thrusts his hips shallowly against Sendak's leg.

“Lotor, sweetheart…” Sendak whispers, succumbing to the same vulnerability.

“What is my purpose here?” Lotor says in a quiet voice, tapping the walls of the fragile illusion. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

He initiates the next kiss and praises Sendak for moaning into it. His stomach squeezes in a nauseating concoction of souring delight and empathy, yet it's more than he could have ever hoped for. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Stop,” Sendak gasps. The push is reluctant but undeniable. Lotor detaches himself, unwilling to step away unless prompted and too absorbed in the changing of Sendak’s facial expression to stray far anyway. Sendak casts his gaze low in a refusal to meet Lotor’s eyes, but there is a decipherable struggle squirming in the golden orb, dulling it to a phlegm yellow as something is decided. He thinks of his father's eyes, fading with his life.

“And?” Lotor prompts, knowing there is more, because there is always more; however, when Sendak looks at him, he doesn’t want to know the rest.

“Stay.” His voice is painfully fond but holds a hint of authority that should not be taken lightly.

Lotor gives Sendak a little more space to recompose himself. He convinces himself he doesn't want closure as he watches the emperor leave the room, wordless in his departure besides the locking of the door. He, too, saves himself the grief of continuing a dialogue better left smothered underfoot; however, he acknowledges this _conversation_ , as it were, will be something revisited in his alone time, several times, due to his tendency to overthink. Self-destruction is bizarrely comforting, so he feels himself mentally toss in what he first and foremost perceives as rejection, even though, quite frankly, he is unsure what he was attempting to accomplish with that particular stunt. The stunt being the wanting, and a question: did he want the sentiment to be reciprocated, despite how the lingering affection he holds for Sendak should have officially died today? Did a few kisses cause his hair to instantaneously grow back and the bruises on his neck and chest to heal similarly?

He sucks on his bottom lip and feels the sting of a small, forgotten wound, bothered by all of the unwanted attention. It needed more time.

It bleeds.


End file.
